


Basvaraad

by bosspigeon



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: AU, Canon Typical Violence, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Mage Hawke - Freeform, Purple Hawke, Qunari, Qunari Culture, Saarebas, Slow Build, WIP, everyone sees it happening but them, ketojan as a companion, rating may change later
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-18
Updated: 2014-11-11
Packaged: 2018-02-13 15:47:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 8,596
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2156229
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bosspigeon/pseuds/bosspigeon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Saarebas was his name and his title, the Qun his purpose for existing. The Qun demanded that he must die to protect himself and his people from the danger within all mages. Then comes Hawke, the bas saarebas with the loud mouth and the strange ability to instill loyalty and trust in the unlikeliest of people, who will not allow him to die as the Qun demands. Instead, she gives him a place at her back, and allows him to see himself as something beyond just a dangerous thing to be controlled.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Saarebas

"Now, Hawke, I've never doubted you before," Varric drawled, leaning against his table, "but... Are you sure this is a good idea?"

 

"When are my ideas  _not_  good?" the mage scoffed, waving a hand about. Their guest tilted his head away to avoid the flailing extremity.

"What's today?" Carver asked. He stood with his hand on the hilt of his sword, close enough to his sister to provide aid if necessary, but not too close. His whole body buzzed with tension.

 

"Tuesday!" Merrill chirped eagerly.

 

"So, yeah, on Tuesdays, and... pretty much every day following that."

 

"Always so much faith in me, brother dear," Hawke said with a snort.

  
The whole band was crowded into Varric's room at the Hanged Man, gathered in a loose, protective ring around Varric's bed, where their brave leader had a chair pulled up alongside their new companion-- namely, a near seven-foot giant with sawed-off horns and stitches in his lips.

 

The saarebas sat quietly as Hawke held her glowing hand around the chains of the massive metal collar. Frost formed along the the links, and with a quick yank, it snapped. One by one, the Ferelden refugee broke the chains, and the Qunari mage simply sat quietly and watched her through the slits in his mask.

 

"Ha! There! Is there nothing I can't do?"

 

"Make sensible life decisions, apparently," Fenris muttered from a corner. "The Qunari keep their mages leashed for a reason, Hawke. Their magic is even more untrained and unpredictable than usual."

 

"Then I suppose I'll just teach him if I need to," Hawke said with another careless hand wave. Again, Ketojan dodged without so much as a grunt. "I helped Father teach Bethany. And he's Qunari! He has this whole... discipline thing down, I'm sure!" She stood up and nudged her chair aside, gripping the edge of the collar and trying to lift it over his head. She gave a little "oof!" of exertion and let it fall again, "Holy shit, that's heavy! How do you just walk around like it's nothing? Carver, get your beefy arms over here and help me out."

  
Carver hesitated, but one glance towards Merrill, watching with big, liquid green eyes, and he trudged forward to grab the collar and hoist it over the Qunari's head with a low grunt.

 

Hawke clapped him on the back. "Thanks little brother, you can stop flexing now. I'm sure everyone's impressed."

 

"If that's what you want to call it," Isabela said with a wiggle of her eyebrows that had Carver blushing and hurrying back to his post, dropping the collar on a chair along the way. The chair creaked ominously. Ketojan rolled his neck and shoulders experimentally, joints popping and cracking in protest. Hawke winced.

 

"Well, that sounded unhealthy," she said. "Alright! Now come the stitches! This is probably going to hurt like a bitch, warning you now. So don't, um, murder me in the face, okay?"

 

Ketojan didn't speak, only nodded once. He hadn't spoken since the Wounded Coast, when Hawke talked him down from suicide with a speech she was sure was rousing and inspirational in the moment, but in hindsight just sounded kind of cheesy. Like something from one of those adventure novels Bethany read as a little girl. Oh well, it worked, and now they had a massive, muscular new mage on the team. Why was everyone else so nervous? Couldn't they share Hawke's enthusiasm just once? Spoilsports, the lot of them. Hawke pulled out the little knife she kept stashed in her armor and got to work, humming as she snipped each little thread and pulled them from the holes in Ketojan's lips. Some of them were healed-over so thoroughly that Hawke actually had to cut the Qunari's lips a bit to get them out, and she apologized over and over again, but she winced far more than he did, and wow, wasn't that just a little heartbreaking.

 

We she was done, the first thing he did was open his mouth wide and work his jaw (producing more horrible grinding and cracking sounds) and touch his chapped, sluggishly bleeding lips. "Anders, can you help out here?" Hawke asked, tipping her head back. The healer sighed heavily, but moved to obey.  
  
"Can you take off that mask please?" he asked tiredly. "Exhausted by your antics" he'd said when she asked. Rude. "It's a bit unnverving."

 

Slowly, clawed hands rose, and Ketojan untied the cords holding the mask. It came away, and he squinted in the light, blinking vivid eyes the color of rust down at Hawke, who grinned up at him. "Well, hello there, bright eyes! Friend, you have cheekbones that could kill a man."

 

" _Sister_ _!"_ Carver blurted.

  
"What?" she whined back. He just gave her a look that clearly said, " _Please do not flirt with the giant dangerous mage_ " but she translated the way she always did: " _Please don't have fun anywhere in my general vicinity because I am a giant bore_."

 

Anders just rolled his eyes and set to work healing the little lacerations in the Qunari's lips, staving off infection and stopping the bleeding. It wasn't difficult, but he didn't like the way the other mage was looking at him, as if he were something utterly bizarre and in need of study. He didn't look at Hawke that way, but perhaps that was because she was... what was the word...  _Basvaraad_?

 

He sighed and finished up, and hoped against hope that Hawke dragging home yet another stray wouldn't be a huge mistake.


	2. Worthy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hawke moves Ketojan into his new home and has a little talk with her new companion.

She didn’t tell Mother about Ketojan. Contrary to what everyone else seemed to think, she _did_  have some sense of self-preservation, and she’d really rather not deal with whatever reaction her mother would have to her daughter harboring an escaped Qunari mage.

It took some finagling with a few old and less than reputable contacts, but she managed to scrape enough coin together to get him a house (if you could call it that) in Lowtown, just a few blocks from Gamlen’s. It was shoved away in a corner and only one room with a small curtained-off washroom, but it was surprisingly low on rodents and it was the only place she could convince the landlord to let to a Qunari. She used a good chunk of her Deep Roads fund to pay for furniture (Lirene’s Ferelden Imports came through there— cheap, if worn out, furniture, plus she was helping her fellow Fereldans), but Varric assured her he could hold Bartrand until she could recoup the loss.

Didn’t stop Carver from bitching about it, though. Though she supposed not even Andraste herself descending from on high to tell him to put a cork in it would keep her dear baby brother from bitching about anything.

 

"So!" she said once they’d finished moving in the meager furnishings. It was just her and the Qunari today. Everyone else was otherwise occupied, and Carver had flat-out told her where she could stick her new pet’s (now defunct) control rod, so she and Ketojan had to sweat on their own lugging around furniture. Well. She sweated. Ketojan made it picking up a solid oak chest of drawers with one arm look easy. "Home sweet home!" she exclaimed, arms thrown wide. Ketojan stared at her without expression, and she deflated. "Okay, look, I know it’s a shithole, but to be fair, I live in a shithole too, but I share my shithole with my greasy weasel of an uncle, my grumpy twat of a baby brother, and my  _extremely_ judgmental and often shrill mother— oh, and a very large and smelly wardog. I love them all to bits, really I do, but I would give  _anything_  to love them from a different house that didn’t smell like rotting cheese and  _man-sweat_  and— wait, I forgot where I was going with this…”

His brows furrowed, and wow was it interesting to actually see his expression instead of a black gold mask. “You believe me to be ungrateful,” he said flatly.

"Uh, no, mostly I was complaining and trying to commiserate but I think I may have come off as kind of an asshole—"

He cut her off with a raised hand. “You led me to freedom when you did not know me, or understand the ways of my people. You fought and killed for my safety when you could have easily been slain in the attempt—”

"Hey, not  _that_  easily—”

"You convinced me to join you rather than submit to the Qun, and though I still do not understand your reasoning, or why I listened to your words, you make me believe that I can find my own way somehow. You broke my chains, physically and symbolically. All this, and you  _still_  yet give, providing me with food and shelter at your own expense though I have not yet been given the chance to be useful to you. I called you  _Basvaraad_  before, Hawke. Worthy of following. I do not give this lightly. If I seem ungrateful, it is only because I do not understand how one person is capable of giving so much of themselves and asking nothing in return.”

Hawke stared up at the saarebas, jaw slack for a moment, before ducking her head and coughing to hide the sudden heat to her cheeks. “I, uh, have you  _met_  me? Shit, I ask for a lot in return. The first thing I ask when most people come to me with a problem is “how much coin you got on you?” I am a shitty person, Ketojan. I put my own first, damn the consequences. I let people down all the time. I’m not questioning your sanity or anything, but by following  _me_ , you gotta be at least a little touched in the head.”

Ketojan stared at her, crimson eyes intent and searching, and his head tilted ever so slightly to one side. “Believe what you will, Hawke,” he rumbled serenely, “but many see what you do not. You have not known your friends long, but they are loyal to you already. I am not the only one who sees that you are  _Basvaraad_.”

She coughed again, rumpled a hand through her wild hair, and looked away from his intense stare. “Yeah, well… Uh… Now that you’re settled in, I got a letter today that says some poor citizen needs help and is offering much coin for expert assistance. You in? I’d like to see what you can do without that collar.”

Ketojan’s eyes crinkle ever so slightly at the corners and he inclines his head. “As you say, Hawke.”

 

 


	3. Impressions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The other companions reflect on their newest addition.

Aveline was naturally wary of their new companion. There were a lot of old prejudices to get over, after all, but Aveline was nothing if not professional. So long as the giant could do his job and didn't break any laws in her presence (and wasn't it just shameful that  _that_  was her standard for friends?) she was perfectly capable of fighting alongside him. And once she got used to the way he tended to stare in moments of calm between battles, and how he never spoke unless spoken too, he wasn't bad. Being muzzled for so long, he was used to observing rather than participating, but Aveline could see how he was slowly opening up under Hawke's overenthusiastic attentions. She quickly grew to care for him the same as she cared for all their motley crew of social rejects-- with much exasperation and the careful hiding of misdemeanors. At least he didn't see how many laws he could break in public in one day just so she had to bail him out. Huh. Maybe she liked him a bit better than most of her other "friends."

~*~*~*~

Merrill was delighted to have a real, live Qunari join in their adventures. She had a million, maybe a  _billion_ questions to ask him. What was it like being a Saarebas? Why did they cut off his horns? Did them stitching his mouth hurt? Did they really cut the tongues from their mages? Well, that one couldn't be true, because he still had his tongue, however little he used it. She came up with questions she wanted to ask him so frequently she took to writing them down in a little journal. She was always excited when Hawke told her that she could come on a job when Ketojan was helping too. It would have been nicer if he didn't seem... almost afraid of her. She supposed it had to do with the first time he saw her using blood magic in battle. He'd nearly fallen over, exclaiming, " _Vashedan_!" when she'd opened her wrist with a knife and used to power to take out a particularly nasty cluster of undead. It had nearly gotten him killed, losing his focus on the battlefield, and Merrill had felt awful, but she supposed he was just another person who didn't understand that blood magic wasn't always evil and she tucked away her journal full of question under her pillow and only pulled it out late at night when she came up with a  _really_  good question. Maybe he'd trust her enough to answer her questions someday. Maybe they could even be friends.

~*~*~*~

Varric was dubious. Very dubious. Hawke did that to him a lot. He trusts her, of course, honestly he does. She's clever and resourceful, tough as nails, and she has the weird ability to inspire loyalty in perfect strangers, but sometimes she makes really,  _really_  bad decisions, and he's usually the one that has to clean up the mess. No good can come of freeing a Qunari mage. He wasn't sure if the threat would come from the Qunari people or Ketojan himself, but either way, it made him jumpy just thinking about it. Ah, well, at least the ox-head wasn't hard to hang out with. Sure, he was quiet and stared more than he spoke, but that wasn't always a bad thing. He was damn good at Wicked Grace once he learned all the suits, and it was impossible to tell he was bluffing. And it was convenient as hell having him along on dangerous jobs, because most people thought twice about tangling with a mean-looking giant with scars. Well, if shit went pear-shaped, at least Varric would have a damn good story to tell.

~*~*~*~

_Another mage. Delightful._ As if palling around with three mages, one an abomination and another a blood mage of all things, wasn't enough. Fenris supposed it could be worse. At least Ketojan was Qunari. He knew of discipline, of the dangers of possession, the danger that comes from within. Though his training was definitely a concern. Saarebas were trained as weapons-- taught to destroy and only to destroy, and were not allowed any instruction in magic that could lead to them becoming possessed. It was... disconcerting to think about, honestly. He knew well what it was like, being treated more like an object than a person, trained so his only real talent was destruction. It was... troubling, to think that he had could identify so readily with a  _mage_. He needed time to think on this.... He needed more wine.

~*~*~*~

If there was anyone who would be a friend to the cause, Anders thought it would be Ketojan, initially. The Qunari's treatment of their mages was barbaric, cruel, fueled by paranoia and lack of knowledge about magic, and an unwillingness to learn. Unfortunately, Ketojan did not seem to see it that way. "The Qun is right to regard mages so," he said calmly when Anders tried to broach the subject, "Magic is a dangerous force, and the threat from within is always present." It didn't help that Ketojan, who would have died by his own hand if it weren't for Hawke because of some crazy ideals drilled into his head since he could bloody speak. There had to be  _something_  in him that saw the moral fallacies of the Qun. And damn it, Anders would find it.

~*~*~*~

Being around Ketojan made Isabela feel... Unsettled. Stiff. Almost... guilty. As if she could be caught any moment just by standing near him. She hid it well, of course. She was an expert at deflecting with humor and innuendo, even if the blasted man didn't understand half of it. It was amusing, at least, to flirt and tease and just watch his brows furrow when he understood how raunchy she was being, and the way Hawke laughed was always worth it, in her book. "Stop teasing him, 'Bela." But she didn't mean it. So Isabela kept doing it And slowly, the Qunari came to understand many of the innuendos and jokes. The first time he casually replied to a sly comment about seeing how he handled weapons (thanks to Hawke mentioning her desire to perhaps train him with some sort of weapon) with a low, "Perhaps another time, pirate," she almost pissed herself laughing.

~*~*~*~

Things were tense between Sebastian and Ketojan, naturally. While he was no longer a part of the Qun, he still clung to its teaching and morals, and they clashed spectacularly with Chantry teachings. It was difficult for Sebastian to reconcile his beliefs of the Qunari people as well as mages with this utter stranger. They didn't clash violently , but things were stilted and strange. Conversation did not come easily, and eye contact, while readily available, was beyond simply  _uncomfortable_. By all the Chantry taught him, Qunari were Makerless heathens and barbarians, and now Hawke had invited one to join them as if it were simple as choosing what to eat for breakfast! There was so much conflict inside him already, his vows struggling with his need to avenge his family. This was just one more thing that had him questioning everything he ever believed in.

~*~*~*~

His sister had always been a weird one. As a small child, Mother often regaled he and Bethany with tales of the odds and ends their elder sister dragged home after a long day of playing in the muck. Rocks and sticks, birds' nests and cocoons-- bugs and snakes and frogs and buckets full of fish and tadpoles. When she got older, she got into the habit of bringing home strays too. Their little homestead was overrun with stray cats, mangy mongrel dogs, even the occasional lost barnyard animal. He could still remember the day he and Bethany were playing outside when their sister, tall and lanky, covered in bruises and dirt with a split lip, hauling an emaciated monster of a dog so covered in crusted mud and filth that it was impossible to tell what color it was. It wasn't until they'd bathed it and been feeding it for a week or two that it gained enough weight for them to see it was a bloody  _mabari_. Mother never asked where she'd found him, only sighed and rolled her eyes with a muttered " _Fereldens."_

 

She'd always been strangely charismatic, too, even when she was young. With a few sly words she could talk down the neighborhood bullies Carver had managed to piss off, saving him from the beating of his life. When they were tight on money, she could sweet talk every neighbor within walking distance into sparing enough food for them to eat well for a few more days. She took after their father even more than Carver did, all suavity and clever jokes. Most people didn't see her for the absolute loon she was, of course. She kept that well hidden. Still, she had a gift, one that made it oh so easy for her to take the reigns when Father died. And when they fled Lothering. And when they docked in Kirkwall and had to fight to get in and every last crust of bread since. She was the one who carried the weight of the family on her shoulders, the duty of providing, and the guilt when something went wrong.

 

He resented her as much as he pitied her, his charming, clever, cocky mage of a sister. And however furious she made him, he knew she'd do everything in her power to keep her family (blood or otherwise) safe and while. Even if that meant doing crazy, reckless, stupid things like bringing a damn  _Qunari_  into the fold. Honestly, what in the name of the Maker's hairy arse was she thinking? There was a  _reason_ everyone feared the bastards! And she decided to drag one home like any other stray cat or dog, or bloody pirate or slave. Worse yet, she  _flirted_  with him, plain as day! He couldn't claim to be an expert at Qunari facial cues, but  _Ketojan_  hadn't once set her on fire for a single sly comment, so he couldn't be uninterested. And damned if that didn't have everything gut instinct in him raring to go a few rounds with the grey, horned giant. He trusted his sister, knew she could handle herself well enough. She was naturally a flirt, and while it had gotten her in hot water a time or two, it was never anything she couldn't handle on her own.

 

Now, he couldn't help but feel she was in a bit over her head. Surely, the Arishok wouldn't take too kindly if he found out someone had stolen one of his precious saarebas. There was probably some sort of law against it. And people always raved about how dangerous Qunari mages were, trained to destroy on command and very little else. If it came down to it, would Ketojan's loyalty to the Qun win out? Would his sister wind up dead because of her damnable bleeding heart?

 

Carver hated more than anything that he couldn't do anything but wait and hope he was wrong.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Carver gets a super long special commentary because he is a broody nerdbaby and wouldn't shut up. Love him to bits.


	4. The Bone Pit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ketojan learns some new skills while accompanying Hawke on a disastrous jaunt into the Bone Pit, Carver is 300% done with his big sister's bullshit, and Anders does not understand dog people.

Hawke didn’t like Hubert. She didn’t like him, but she needed gold, and he was willing to provide it if she took care of his problems. Yet another illustrious adventure of Ferelden refugee and staff-for-hire Abigail Hawke. She haggled with the sleazy business owner for a price, made sure she knew what would happen to him if he didn’t pay (by simply leaning to the side a bit and letting Ketojan’s piercing red eyes frighten the Orlesian a good bit— she wouldn’t  _really_ do anything drastic, but it was easy to scare particularly unscrupulous-looking customers into honesty and damn did it work when you had someone like Ketojan around) and set off with her party to prepare for the adventure.

She deliberated over who she would take with her for a bit, gathered her supplies, and joyfully informed Isabela and Carver that they’d be accompanying her. Isabela couldn’t stop giggling over the name of Hubert’s mine— ‘The Bone Pit’— and Carver looked like he wanted to throttle his sister for dragging him along on yet another jaunt. Ketojan, as usual, looked completely indifferent. Hawke rather liked that she had  _one_  friend who didn’t sass every decision she made, but, still, she’d like to know how he felt about a job just once.

As they trekked out of Kirkwall and towards the mountains, Pansy bounding around their feet and barking happily, Abigail slowed down a bit to match Ketojan’s carefully adjusted, leisurely pace (any faster and few could keep up with his long strides without jogging) and nudged his arm. “So, that Hubert guy was a slimeball, right?”

Ketojan frowned deeply. “He seemed a dishonest and manipulative human, indeed. Why did we agree to help him?”

Hawke laughed brightly. “If there’s anything I like more than taking rich people’s money, it’s taking sleazy rich people’s money. I’m going to milk this job for all it’s worth, my friend. Should be easy money.”

 

~*~*~*~

Okay, Hawke  _really_  hated being wrong. Not only because it was a blow to the ego, but Maker forbid  _Carver_  was around to see her fuck up.

“ _Dragons_. Of course it’s dragons. It’s always bloody  _something_  with you, isn’t it?”

"Oh, for fuck’s sake, Carver, shut up!" She swung her staff at the snapping dragonling crowding her against the wall, cracking into its jaw so she could stab it and force enough electricity down the length of the staff to fry the creature in its tracks. It didn’t help much. Three more came in with gnashing teeth and claws and she was already too low on mana from the first wave of the little bastards to give them a proper blast.She held them off with her bladed staff and whatever small spells she could muster until she could get enough elbow room to swig a lyrium potion.

She could have called for help, but Isabela was pinned down and Carver was similarly trapped. Pansy was snapping at legs and grabbing throats where she could, but there was only so much one hound could do. Ketojan was nowhere to be—

  
The ground shifted abruptly under her feet, and spires of stone shot up before her eyes, impaling the dragonlings in various gruesome ways. She winced a bit in sympathy. And then Ketojan swept into her line of sight and shoved a lyrium potion into her hands. She just gawped at him. “Where the hell did you learn to do that?”

He looked at her, and behind his usual stoic mask, his eyes were just as wild and confused as she felt. “I do not know,” he answered honestly. “Drink.” She did, and leaned heavily against the Qunari’s side.

"Okay. That was fun."

Carver slashed down the last couple dragonlings, Isabela wiped her blades off with a handkerchief she pulled from her cleavage, and Pansy bounded up to Hawke with a bloody limb of some sort in her mouth, dropping it proudly at her feet. She rubbed her ears and used her meager healing magic to tend to a nasty cut on her back leg, cooing, “Such a good girl. My big brave warhound. Who did a good job? Who did a good job? You did!” Pansy barked cheerfully and butted her head against her master’s knee. Hawke grinned and squared her shoulders. “That’s the spirit! Alright, after that disaster, it couldn’t possibly get any worse, right?” Carver groaned behind her.

~*~*~*~

  
 _Andraste’s hairy arse_ , did she hate being wrong. Nasty wingless little nippers that came at you in droves were bad, but a full-sized dragon?

"Please don’t ever take me anywhere with you again."

"Not helping, little brother!"

The thing wasn’t as big as she expected a real dragon to be, but it was still a bitch to cut down. She hated using her brother as a distraction, but he was the only one sturdy enough to take the brunt of its attacks without getting knocked down and slashed to bits. The rest of them had to target from behind, with Pansy darting in and snapping at its legs and belly.

It was Isabela who delivered the killing blow, taking advantage of the opening made when Hawke stabbed the blade of her staff through its tail and pinned it to the ground to give Carver time to recover his breath. Before it could turn and roast them all, the pirate ran up its back and dropped onto it as if she were riding a horse, driving both daggers deep into the base of its skull. It wobbled for a moment, then crashed to the ground in a pile of flailing limbs and wings. Pansy yelped and skittered out of the way, and Isabela tumbled away with a groan of pain.

"Okay, that was fun. Remind me never to do it again."

Hawke leaned heavily on her staff and laughed weakly. “Okay. That has to be it right? Right?”

  
"Please shut up," Carver moaned almost pitifully.

  
~*~*~*~

The mine worker, Jansen, and perhaps the only survivor, scuttled pat them in a hurry, his words ringing in their ears. “ _You should leave too. But don’t go that way. There’s this huge dragon!_ ”

Once the worker is gone, Ketojan turns slowly to face Hawke, his heavy brows furrowed and his mouth set in a grim line. “We are going that way, aren’t we.”

Hawke just grinned at him, hair sticking to her face with sweat, chest still heaving, and took off at a run without a word, Pansy barking and howling eagerly at her heels.

Carver cursed violently as he rushed past the Qunari after his sister, and Isabela paused just long enough to grin at him and say, “You get used to it. At least she’s got a nice arse, so there’s  _some_  perks to following her into hell all the time!” before darting after them.

Ketojan sighed heavily and jogged to catch up.

~*~*~*~

It wasn’t an easy battle, but, honestly, they didn’t expect it to be. None of them really knew what to do, and Carver honestly looked as if he was more likely to attack his sister than the mighty beast that dropped down in front of them with an ear-shattering bellow. They had a moment to stare is shock and awe, and just enough time for Carver to glower murderously at Hawke and for her to respond, “Look, Carver! Your big sister made your childhood dream of fighting dragons come true!”

"I am going to murder you," he gritted through his teeth.

She cackled wildly and decided to break the standoff with the beast eyeballing them by firing a bolt of blue frost magic at its face. And then the game was on.

Carver took the charge once more, charging in and hacking at the dragon’s forelegs, barely dodging its snapping jaws and sweeping claws, while Isabela twirled past its lashing tail to slash and stab at its hind legs. Ketojan kept to the rear, calling on lightning and earth to scorch its hide, blind it with flashes, and to keep the ground under its feet ever shifting. He even used his newfound power to send a rocky spike through the dragon’s foot, pinning it in place. Things rapidly turned in their favor after that.

They had taken out a wing when, flailing in rage, the massive reptile grabbed Pansy, who had been barking and nipping and making a fierce nuisance of herself, in one massive claw and flung her across the battlefield. She landed with a pained yelp and lay still, and Hawke gave a roar of fury to rival the dragon’s and charged in with her staff raised before anyone could stop her. The temperature dropped sharply and suddenly, and her eyes glowed blue. She slammed her staff into the ground, and wave of massive frozen spikes shot upwards to impale the dragon right through the belly. The sound it made was deafening, and as it flailed and bled, it lashed wildly out with all its limbs. The broad side of its head caught Hawke, and she was flung away with a sickening thud.

  
Carver bellowed “ _Abigail!_ " his voice broken and terrified, and it was he that delivered the killing blow, waiting for the dragon to lower its head enough for him to leap and stab his sword straight down. He left it there, impaled in the twitching corpse, and rushed to his sister’s side. Skidding on his knees and reaching out to touch, he drew back, terrified of making it worse. She was so still, blood matting the hair down on one side of her head and trickling from the corner of her mouth. The tiniest sound ripped from his throat, something close to a whimper, and he choked out, "You’ll be alright! Damn it! You’ll be alright!”

 

Isabela skittered towards them, cursing vibrantly. “Why didn’t you bring Anders, you stupid bitch? I was useless out there! You needed a healer, not me and my little knives!” She looked shaken, barely holding together herself, knowing that Hawke couldn’t hear her, but cursing her anyway. Pansy limped up, mostly unhurt, but favoring her left side and back leg. She nudged Hawke’s limp hand and whimpered plaintively.

 

Ketojan was stock-still for a moment. Just staring, surveying the scene, the blood on the ground, the gradually slowing rise and fall of Hawke’s chest beneath her leather breastplate.

 

He knelt where there was room, and pressed a hand to her chest. Instinct guided him, instinct, and a healthy dose of hope. Carver growled, but Isabela silenced him, watching intently. The Qunari inhaled deeply, closed his eyes, and called upon his magic.

 

In a rush, he could sense the fractures in her ribs, the bleeding in her insides, the swelling in her brain, and he pushed his magic into her, a sharp burst that left him gasping in unison with the other mage, who sat bolt upright and sucked in a sharp breath, before crying out sharply in pain and confusion.

 

"HOLY fuckin; OW!" she slurred, looking around wildly, dizzily. "Where’s Pansy? She okay?" The mabari responded by eagerly licking her master’s face. "Pansy!"

 

Carver made a strangled sound somewhere between anger and relief, and Isabela laughed sharply. “Worried about the damned dog? Of course.”

 

"I do not think we should linger here," Ketojan intoned. "I do not know how well my… healing will hold up."

 

"Let’s get you to Anders, sweetie," Isabela said with a snort, helping to haul the mage to her feet. Carver took up her other side, sliding her arm over his shoulder.

 

"As soon as you’re healed, I’m kicking your ass," he grumbled.

 

Hawke laughed dazedly. “Love you too, li’l brother.”  
  
  


They hobbled off together, and Ketojan looked down at Pansy, who peered up at him with big, soulful eyes and whuffed. He picked her up easily, careful of her injuries, and followed the others.

 

~*~*~*~

 

"Wait, wait, wait. Let me get this straight.  _You charged a fully grown dragon_  because it hurt your  _dog_?” Anders asked incredulously. Hawke was laid up in bed, bandaged and bruised, but healed of her major injuries and concussion, but not quite ready to stand on her own yet.

 

"You can’t make this shit up," Varric grumbled to himself, scribbling furiously in his notebook.

 

"Oh, like you wouldn’t do the same for a cat!" their fearless (read: stupid) leader exclaimed. "Pansy is my baby. And she’s thrown herself in danger for me countless times. Why wouldn’t I do the same for her?"

 

"Because it’s a  _dog_! Not a person! You could have been killed!”

 

"So could Pansy!"

 

They bickered back and forth for a while, before Ketojan interjected, his voice quiet, but strong. Pansy was sitting at his feet, banned from bounding on her master’s sickbed and valiantly sulking about it. “The hound is a brave warrior, facing down such a creature without fear. She deserves the same respect you would give any of your companions.”

 

"Yeah!" Isabela crowed. "She’s saved your pasty ass a couple times, I’m sure! Haven’t you, girl?"

 

Pansy barked and waggled her stumpy tail. Ketojan bent to ruffle her ears, earning an enthusiastic lick. Hawke just sat there, battered, but alive, and grinning at him.


	5. Roles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More often than not, Abigail Hawke is the cause of her own injuries. Whether it's by recklessly charging heavily armored enemies or mouthing off at angry mercs, it's a headache to constantly patch her up. Luckily, her penchant for getting hurt gives Ketojan plenty of opportunities to practice his newfound healing skills. Unluckily, she's not the type to lie back quietly and let him work without chattering his ear off the entire time.

“Ow, ow! Hey, stop fussing!” Hawke griped as Ketojan poked and prodded at her ribs. “Look, you healed the internal damage, yeah? I’m fine!” She squirmed and wriggled to escape his grasp, but she was trapped between the wall and his massive body on a narrow cot, with nowhere to go and her ankle bandaged and pretty much useless. If she could get past him at all, she wouldn’t be able to hobble very far before he caught up.

 

“Your ribs are still fractured,” he said disapprovingly.

 

“And you’re almost completely depleted of mana!” she said back, still casting about for an escape, “And I’ve cracked my ribs before, I’ll survive!”

 

“Not without proper binding,” he grunted, giving her a look so stern, so deeply unamused that she couldn’t help but utter a sharp bark of laughter. Unfortunately, he was right about her ribs, and her mirth cut off with a sharp groan and a curse as she hunched over protectively.

 

“Ow, shit,” she muttered, pressing a hand to her battered side. “Okay, you win, bind away.”

 

He had to help her with her tunic, pulling it carefully over her head, and it took much longer than it should have to wrap her ribs in supportive bandaging with her squirming away from every ticklish touch. But he got it done, and he surveyed his handiwork with a critical eye. “It is not too tight?” he inquired seriously.

 

“No, it’s perfect,” she replied, flopping onto her back on the cot. “But you are a damned mother hen and you are no longer allowed to hang out with Anders. Are you this naggy with anyone else, or am I just special?” She wiggled her eyebrows at him for effect.

 

He gave her a deadpan look, checking the rest of her for any other injuries she may not have vocally complained about (as she usually did when hurt), and when he seemed satisfied she wasn’t hiding anything grievous from him, he sat back on a comically small stool with threadbare velvet padding and sat straight with his hands on his knees. “None of the others charge headlong into danger without armor.”

 

“I hardly call a pissed-off merc at the Hanged Man “danger”, Ketojan,” she snorted, flinging an arm across her brow. “Like, how was I supposed to know an old friend would decide to show up while I was drinking with some buddies? I don’t just  _constantly_  wear my armor everywhere. Do you expect me to wear it to bed? In the bath?”

 

“You are being deliberately ridiculous,” he said flatly. He pushed to his feet and wandered to his little supply table, covered in dried herbs and old, but clean linen to be torn into bandages, as well as various tomes and scrolls about medicines and such Anders had lent to him. Less than a month after discovering his penchant for healing and he was already proving to be a dedicated and talented pupil. A bit too intimidating to work there beyond an hour or two late at night when, hopefully, no one was in, but he helped by making poultices and tinctures.

  
He and Anders weren’t exactly joined at the hip, but the haggard healer was always happy to have some assistance, even if that assistance refused to entertain any discussions about the Qunari’s “wretched abuse of mages.”

 

Ketojan took some time to grind some strong-smelling herb or another in his mortar, and Hawke felt no need to break the comfortable silence until he was sitting next to her again and offering a chipped ceramic cup of dark tea. There were little petals floating around in it, and the steam that rose from it gave off a pungent, bitter fragrance that was oddly appealing. “For the pain,” he explained when she gave him a questioning look.

 

“Another recipe from that little book?” she asked with a smile.

 

“No,” he rumbled, “from Par Vollen. And old remedy given to warriors to soothe the ache of torn muscles.”

 

She looked at him curiously as he helped her sit up so that she could drink, and she was pleasantly surprised to find that the tea was not as bitter as its scent led her to believe. It was a sort of sharp, crisp taste, with a hint of spicy sweetness. She took another sip and tilted her head. “I didn’t know the Qunari taught their saarebas tea-making.”

 

He gave her that look he gave her so often now, an almost fond exasperation. The look he got when he called her  _venak hol_  (something he called her fairly often, and refused to say what it meant), when she was being particularly belligerent or pestering. “Your mages do not begin to show their magic at birth, do they?” he asked, tilting his head slightly. “I was evaluated and had begun my early training before I was found to be saarebas.”

 

“Really?” she asked, eyebrows rising. “What were you going to be? A soldier? A philosopher?”

 

“Pursuits of the mind are better suited to women,” he dismissed, “Very few men are placed in such roles.”

 

“I think you’d be a good philosopher,” Hawke said with a grin. “You’ve got the perfect broody face for it. And you’re so wise. Like a… like a wise old wizard from the stories!”

 

The look he gave her was dry as a bloody desert, and she couldn’t help but wonder how she ever thought the qunari to be expressionless as living stones. She giggled childishly, slapping his thick shoulder with one hand and covering her mouth with the other.

 

“Oh! Oh!” she exclaimed, flinging both hands up. “But imagine yourself with a  _loooong_ grey beard! And a funny hat! Well, you couldn’t wear the hat because of your horns. Unless we cut holes in it…”

 

“Drink your tea and cease your prattle,  _venak hol_ ,” he said with a barely perceptible sigh. She grinned at the familiar (most likely unflattering) nickname and downed the rest in one go.

 

“There, finished. But I’m not gonna stop prattling because I want to know. What were you going to be before they found out you were a mage? Will you tell me?”

 

He took her cup and refilled it before he spoke, but when he was comfortably settled and she had her fresh cup of weirdly addicting tea, he said, “I was to be a… I do not know what your word for it would be. We were called  _viddathaad_.”

 

“What’s that mean?”

 

“It is…” He frowned slightly in consideration, searching his knowledge of the common tongue for the right words. “Something like a warrior. A soldier who also has knowledge of medicine and treatment of wounds, to tend their injured brothers in battle.”

 

“Like a field medic?” she asked. “Yeah, that suits. Hey, is that one of those jobs men and women can do? You said “pursuits of the mind” are women’s work.” She said “women’s work” with a sort of sluggish drawl, clearly mocking the phrase.

 

“Our physicians are primarily women, yes,” he said without reacting to her irreverence. He had gotten quite good at it. “But  _viddathaad_  is a role any gender can fill due to its unique requirements.”

 

“Well, that’s neat, at least!” She grinned at him, patting his knee, and then a smile split her face and her eyes brightened. She flapped her hands in excitement. “Hey! You can do it now! Since you’re studying with Anders now, learning healing… It’s like you can fulfil the role you were meant to all along!”

 

He simply stared at her for a moment, eyes a fraction wider than usual, mouth open the slightest bit. And then he began to smile. It wasn’t a big smile, or even particularly noticeable, but Hawke had gotten pretty good at reading his expressions. The corners of his mouth relaxed, quirked the slightest bit, and there was the faintest crinkle at the corners of his russet eyes. She couldn’t help but beam back at him. And then she squawked when he grasped her shoulder in one hand leaned forward, bumping his forehead against hers. The contact lasted only a second, but it still had her stomach fluttering with happiness. “You are a strangely insightful woman, Hawke,” he rumbled.

 

She snorted a little. “Tell me that next time I decide to goad angry mercenaries.”

 

He gave her a wry look. “I fully intend to.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, sorry! I meant to post this like three days ago when I posted it on my Tumblr...


	6. Idle Gossip

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Carver worries about just how close his sister is getting to her qunari companion. Unfortunately, he realizes too late that he really doesn't want to think about it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the late update, everyone! I've been in kind of a creative slump lately, and that plus school equals one unproductive cream puff. I'm still working out the details of how many more Act I quests I want to work in before the Deep Roads, but I'll try to be a little more prompt with the next installment! That'll hopefully be less short and filler-y.

If there was one thing about his sister Carver couldn’t stand, it was the fact that she was constantly breathing down his neck when he didn’t want her around, but she was damn near impossible to find when he actually needed her.

 

She wasn’t at Gamlen’s, or the Hanged Man,or the Hightown markets, or any of her usual haunts. It was really beginning to irk him, and he knew that if he didn’t find her soon, he’d forget what he needed in the first place.

 

He’d asked Varric where she could have been, but the damn dwarf was no help, like always, so he just stomped home again„ shooting irritable glowers at anyone who so much as glanced at him sideways. When he came in the door, Pansy leapt up from her bed of tattered old blankets and bounded up to him, snuffling at his hands, his clothes, investigating all the new smells he’d picked up since he’d left that morning.

 

"Can you help me out, old girl?"he asked, rubbing her ears and letting her lick his fingers. She barked enthusiastically and bounded around him. "Good girl. Do you know where Abigail is?"

 

Pansy barked again and made a beeline for the door, pawing impatiently on the rough-hewn wood. When Carver pushed it open, she took off like a shot, barely sniffing the ground as she went. Carver followed a good ways behind, not quite willing to run, but Pansy never let him get too far behind. He recognized the neighborhood before long, and he groaned as he looked down at the big hound, who kept circling back to run around him once or twice and bound off again.

 

"Seriously?" he asked as she lead him to a crooked door with a red emblem painted right above the knocker. He groaned and rubbed his face. "Of course she’s here. She’s always he," he grumbled. Resigning himself to, once again, watching his sister moon over a bloody qunari, he raised his hand to knock. "Sister? Sister, you here?"

  
No one answered. He tried again, knocking more forcefully this time, and still nothing. He looked down at Pansy, who stared up at him with wide brown eyes, her little stub tail wagging so hard her entire rear end wiggled. “So, I suppose we’re breaking into the qunari’s place, then, eh, big girl?”

 

She yipped her agreement and butted her blocky head against the rough wood, scratching at the frame.

 

Carver grabbed the handle and and set his shoulder against the door, pushing with just enough force to pop it open without damaging it. He’d been locked out of Gamlen’s enough times to know how to get in without breaking the door— Lowtown’s locks weren’t exactly known for their effectiveness.

 

For a moment, he wasn’t sure exactly what he was seeing. Then, he felt his face flame bright red.

 

Sprawled out in the middle of the floor, stripped to the waist, was Ketojan. And sitting astride his broad, naked back in nothing but her breeches and a thin shift was his sister. For a moment, his vision flashed red, and he felt protective anger boil up in his gut. His hand went to the sword slung across his back.

 

And then Abigail was looking up at him, eyebrows raised, hands pausing where they were pressed between the qunari’s thick shoulders. “Oh, come on, what did the poor door do to you?”

 

"What in the hell are you doing?" Carver blurted, nearly toppling as Pansy darted past him to lick eagerly at Abigail’s bare shoulder and nose into the fluffy cloud of her hair.

 

The elder Hawke gently pushed the hound away with a scritch behind the ear and looked down at Ketojan, who turned his head to stare at Carver with dark, impassive eyes. “Ketojan wrenched his shoulder clearing out that spider nest down by the Coast. Anders is sleeping off an all-night baby delivery so I’m helping. I used to do it for you and Father all the time, remember? I’m practically an expert.”

 

She pressed the heel of her hand down hard just at the crease of Ketojan’s shoulder blade and he made a low, deep grunting noise under her, making her grin.

 

"Hey! That’s an improvement, eh? Now let me just…" Another press and a kneading push and the qunari uttered a soft, wobbly groan. "See? Finally some progress. You’re hard as a rock, too! Maker, do you ever relax?"  
  


Carver pinched the bridge of his nose and tried to quell the way his face burned. “I’m just… I’m just gonna go.”

 

"Take Pansy with you. And maybe give her a bath! She reeks!"

 

Pansy barked cheerfully at the accusation, as if nothing pleased her more.

~*~*~*~

 

Carver hated nights in Varric’s room at the Hanged Man. Well, he didn’t when he arrived, but he always regret coming before long. Especially where alcohol and Isabela were involved.

"So, puppy," she drawled, leaning across the table and leering, "tell us again how you found your big sister naked and rolling about on the floor with that grey hunk of prime man-meat."

 

Carver covered his face and groaned, peering out only to glower at the saucy, smirking pirate. “They weren’t  _naked_  and there was no…  _rolling around_ ,” he protested, “She was just… Helping out a friend!” The words came out week, and he wasn’t quite sure if he believed them. Abigail had always been very… close, physically with a lot of her friends. She didn’t really have the same compunctions or personal boundaries others seemed to.

 

"I’ve helped out a few friends in a similar fashion," the pirate queen replied with a wink, "If they aren’t knocking boots already, I’d give it a month at the most."

 

Varric, sitting at the head of the table with his boots propped on the edge and his chair tilted back, set his pen aside, “Rivaini, you forget she’s seducing a qunari. I don’t think wooing one of those big horned stone-men is a matter of just falling into bed. It’s gonna take  _finesse_.”

 

"Finesse Hawke does not have," Fenris added, barely glancing up from where he was busily polishing his breastplate.

 

"Yes, but have you  _seen_  him with her?” Isabela said earnestly, “He  _talks_  to her. He just grunts at the rest of us. That’s got to mean something!”

 

"Qunari are not like others in their relationships," Fenris intoned, "They do not think the same. Under the Qun, sex is exclusively for procreation." Isabela gasped in mock horror, but he steadfastly ignored her. "They do not form sexual relationships, or romantic relationships the way we perceive them."  
  


"But he’s not of the Qun anymore," Varric tossed in.

  
"But it is still his culture," Fenris said sagely. "It still influences him. Do not be so quick to believe he will forget everything he was raised to believe simply because an attractive woman bats her eyes at him."

 

"So you admit you find Hawke attractive," Isabela wheedled, leaning into Fenris’s space. He simply rolled his eyes at her.

  
"As do you."  
  
  
"Yes, but it’s not as surprising when I admit it. I’ve a weakness for pretty ladies."

 

Carver just thumped his forehead on the table, before raising his head to glare at all of them. “You’re all terrible and I hate you. There was  _no_  naked,  _no_  rolling, there is  _no_  wooing, and you can all just shut up about it!”

 

"I think someone’s a bit grumpy," Isabela stage-whispered to Fenris, mostly as an excuse to blow in his ear (earning a halfhearted glare as his hands slipped on his armor).

 

"I’m no expert," the elf said dryly, "but I don’t think many young men are too fond of discussing their sisters’ potential sex lives."

 

"Ah, lighten up, Junior!" Varric laughed, "It’s just a little gossip."

 

"Oh, yeah, dwarf?" he said viciously, baring his teeth in a wicked grin, "Then how about we discuss your brother’s sexual preferences? How’s he like his women? Do you think he’s the type to let her take charge? You know, it’s always the angry ones who—"

 

"Alright!" the storyteller said, laughing, "I get your point. Please, for the love of all that is holy, stop that train of thought before I take lye to my eyeballs to burn out the images."

 

"I dunno, I’ve always wondered—"  
  


"Do not finish that thought, Rivaini."

**Author's Note:**

> So yeah, conversations with friends on Tumblr and continued bitterness over Ketojan's death in DA: II spawned this little baby. It's going to span the entire game with the what-if scenario of Ketojan the saarebas surviving (thanks to Hawke) and becoming a part of her merry band of misfits.


End file.
